I firmly believe that one must do something that scares them everyday

What is scarier than facing Your own face in the mirror After a night of deep sleep?

Stagnant hours were written down In your bones, which will, perhaps, Never find the cage in a museum, Into which other spirit-quickened Bones will peer at, to read the verdict Handed down to them at the end of time.

This knowledge turns you away From the thread bareness of yourself, This knowledge that nothing survives Of a life, as it is made and unmade, Except the riverstone of love.